RehearsalsThe hall is dark. The walls breathe careless echoes of voices raised in practise and correction. The floor creaks occasionally, the afterthought of a pas de deux. The only anguish in art is that of the willow: florescent light makes everyone important and busy. In the empty hall, the walls breathe echoes of voices, and of gestures attained. Here, we have cherished our torment, and our wonder. In endless practise, we have perfected the appearance of tragedy. Young girls have wept in recognition of the realised reflection. Only the walls show no appreciation: their gaze is even, and inescapable. Their pity, stillborn, is impenetrable.